


Cantabile

by hikachu



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: F/M, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-17
Updated: 2009-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3341474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikachu/pseuds/hikachu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mytho is beautiful in a way that doesn't make Fakir blush yet, but his radiance is like a silent voice ordering gently: stay here, stay here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cantabile

_"Boy," he told me, "here lies the mockery and the betrayal: first they take away every ounce of strength from you, and then they'll feel disappointed if you do not behave like a man. If you want to be alive, stop living…"_

—Cesare Pavese,  _Dialoghi con Leuco'_

**1**

There's a little girl pressing her lips against Mytho's cheek.

She's dressed like one of those ballerinas that sleep in pretty boxes of dark wood and chiseled silver, but the darkness of her hair and clothes is out of place, as is her short, chubby body. And Fakir is still just a child too, but he thinks he looks nothing like her; not even when he is alone and tries to raise Mytho's sword with both hands, baring gritted teeth at his other self in the mirror.

And then she's gone, carried away by her short legs, and Fakir smirks seeing that she lacks grace and elegance.

There's no more than a hint of annoyance in his tone, though, when he steps closer to Mytho and asks:

"Who was  _that_?"

Mytho shifts a little and blinks. His only answer is:

"Rue."

**2**

Sometimes, when his eyes meet a particularly striking landscape or Mytho's sleeping face, Fakir can feel words and sentences climbing their way to his mouth, crawling under his skin till they reach his fingers and make them tingle.

It feels like a whole new world is exploding inside his heart, and it melts every other thought but the desperate need to let it all out. There are faraway towns he's never seen, places which might not even exist and adventures he's hasn't lived (yet) dancing before his eyes.

Fakir's right hand curls around a pencil that's too short to be used comfortably, and he starts writing down the wonderful things he sees before he forgets them. He writes because he's never been good at drawing, and even his handwriting is not beautiful at all, but he traces each word with unexpected attention, almost lovingly.

**0**

When Mytho sleeps for days, Fakir spends most of his time watching over him and thinks,  _I_  found him, he's my responsibility now.

And Mytho is pale and white and delicate and Fakir remembers how his eyes widened the first time he saw him, collapsing to the ground like a giant dove struck by an arrow. Mytho did not bleed, though. He only appeared tired, as if he wanted to sleep forever.

But you will wake, Fakir thinks, you will. Because I wouldn't be waiting for you, if I knew you won't.

And Mytho, pale, white, delicate Mytho is beautiful in a way that doesn't make Fakir blush yet, but his radiance is like a silent voice ordering gently: stay here, stay here.

When he finally opens his eyes, they are spent like dirty mirrors. Fakir holds his breath, uncertain as to whether he should smile or cry, until a thought fills his head, white and impetuous like the ocean during a storm:

**3**

It's raining hard outside, and Fakir has spent the whole afternoon writing on an old notebook with yellowed pages.

Mytho is still seated in front of the window; he's been there since they had lunch, completely silent and unmoving. The old wooden floor would have given away the faintest move with a dry squeak. And so it does, indeed, when Fakir calls Mytho's name, and the other turns to look at him.

"I've written a story," he begins, voice loud and barely containing his pride. It's not the first tale he writes, but it's the first time he decides to read it aloud to Mytho. For some reason, he believes that it'll convey feelings and promises better than any direct oath.

When the story ends, though, Mytho is as silent and expressionless as ever.

This is the last story Fakir will write in a long while.

**0.5**

Mytho looks like he's about to break. There is someone I don't know living inside of him.

**4**

Life in Kinkan town is proceeding with it usual uneventful pace on the day Fakir finds himself facing three disconcerting thoughts:

The first is, I will die for him. I will die and it will be shameful because it will be useless.

The second bloomed that very morning, when Fakir casually spotted the grey shadows tracing Mytho's collarbone; and it goes: don't get greedy, don't get greedy, don't get greed.

The third thought is a secret one, for Fakir himself has yet to acknowledge it. It is a soft whisper of:

I want to live.

And—

**5**

When Fakir is tall and strong enough to use a sword without faltering under its weight, Mytho tilts his head and puts his hands on Fakir's shoulders, tries to stand on his toes but gives up almost at once. Sinking back, he asks:

"Why am I smaller today, Fakir?"

And Fakir, who's trembling, replies nothing and grasps Mytho's thin wrists to shove him away, but then his body freezes suddenly, and they remain like that until Fakir can breathe evenly again.

**4.5**

—I don't want to face this, I don't want to hear it, but

I want to know you.

**6**

Rue is still there.

Rue is there even when they leave the town for the school dorms. She's long and thin, now, and moves with a sleek grace that earns her the role and title of prima donna and prima ballerina. Rue is beautiful and smart and still there, but Mytho still won't look at her (not unless she gets so close that his eyes can't see anything but hers).

Fakir finds Rue annoying and spoiled and selfish and ugly with her dark, dark wings. Odile, he thinks scornfully when he looks at her.

Next to her, Mytho is a mirage of gentle light and fading warmth. Not a prince, but Odette who will soon turn into a swan to fly away.

Fakir finds himself liking Rue even less and less and less.

**6.5**

Rue despise Fakir as deeply as Fakir despises her.

They are accomplices, though, and sometimes they stand close, whispering to each other like (the) conjurers (they are).

"It's easy for you," Rue spats angrily, one day, "accusing me like this—It's easy, really." She says again and laughs, full of malice. "It's because you're a man, and the lies a man tells are mere excuses, while the lies of a woman are an expression of her wishes: a man who lies will always seem nicer than a honest one or a lying woman."

And it's true. And it makes Fakir's pride sting.

But—

**7**

—lately, when Mytho clings to him, tearful and afraid, asking: "How do I feel about you?", Fakir's heart aches and he can't bring himself to lie.

**0.5 (II)**

Mytho is beautiful. Mytho is sunlight.

I like Mytho.

**(end)**

but Fakir is forgetting two important facts:

Mytho is heartless

and

it's always the princess that the prince picks, in the end.


End file.
